


Tuesday

by effieadieu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M, Sad, potential insanity, sam cant get out of the loop, set during mystery spot, sorry this sucks omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:02:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effieadieu/pseuds/effieadieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during S3 E11, Mystery Spot. Sam doesn't get out of the loop and may or may not go crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday

The first few Tuesdays had been confusing, incredibly troubling and altogether terrifying.  
Dean, his brother, the only blood family he had, somebody he loved with his whole heart no matter what, dying day after day… It was enough to drive a person mad. Of course, Sam was used to crazy things happening in his life. Not always as crazy as a morbid twist on Groundhog Day, but… Well, it was easier for him to keep his head together and look for the solution to the problem at hand than it would be for somebody like, say, Dexter Hassleback. The Mystery Spot had been his first go to, but he couldn’t seem to figure out what connection, if any, the place had with this seemingly endless time loop.  
He knew he’d find it though. The quicker they were out of this the better; it made him uneasy to think that Dean might die for good every single day.  
And really, watching his brother die is one of the worst things he could fathom. If he had made a deal like Dean’s, he’d have thought a demon was collecting early and sent his soul to his own personal hell.  
The Tuesdays stretched on and Sam kept a mental tally of all of them he’d weathered. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen… Dean’s deaths ranged from creative and absolutely one-in-a-million, to things as basic as getting hit by a car or being shot. He couldn’t find the answer.  
He got so antsy that he tore apart the Mystery Spot with nothing but a small ax. Well, he’d tried. Unfortunately, Dean managed to die by Sam’s own hand that day, so he didn’t dare try it again.  
Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. The Tuesdays kept coming. Maybe it was somebody at the diner. He began watching and listening to everybody, absolutely paranoid that any one of them could be behind this gruesomeness. It was getting hard to pull himself out of bed to Heat of the Moment, but the thought of Dean’s salvation was a good motivator.  
Sam would pay attention to absolutely everything. Maybe that’s how he’d bring about the downfall of this stupid Tuesday. Something might slip up, something that could lead him to a way to fix this.  
Thirty. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four.  
He wished he could keep a journal for the first time in his life. Unfortunately, it would be gone by the next day, lost as time reset itself.  
Forty days. Tuesday was becoming a routine. Wake up, go to the diner, watch everybody, watch Dean, watch Dean die. He burned down the Mystery Spot yesterday. It didn’t really matter. Dean died from smoke inhalation, despite being near Sam during the whole thing.  
Honestly, watching Dean die really made Sam begin to appreciate what he looked like healthy and breathing. He put off an aura that almost glowed. His eyes shone when Sam spoke to him, completely different to the way they looked brimming with tears of pain, or the way they dulled as he took his last shuddery breath(s).  
Every day Dean would ask what was wrong and Sam would have to recount the entire story. Sometimes, though, he wouldn’t tell him about the deaths, because it almost hurt more to see him try to prevent it and be unable to. It was selfish and stupid to keep it from him, true, but it proved to be easier.  
The seventieth day, Sam stayed in bed. He didn’t get up or even move, no matter what Dean said. Dean fell down the stairs by himself, and Sam only had to wait a few seconds until he was greeted by Asia and his brother’s rectified voice.  
“Rise and shine, Sammy!”  
It was probably more, but it only felt like a few Tuesdays later that he began telling Dean how much he loved him. “I love you, man, I love you,” he’d whisper, or cry, sometimes scream. One day he said “at least you’re not going to hell,” but wondered afterwards if all of those dead Deans, a thousand or more, were going to hell in some reality and sobered. An army of Deans in hell because Sam couldn’t stop a stupid time loop.  
He’d tried leaving, just packing up and getting out. That didn’t work. They were trapped here.  
One hundred and forty-six days. It was all a blur by now. Nothing changed, Dean continued to die. They’d go to the diner with wet hair and Dean would eat his Pig n’ a Poke, side of bacon, and drink a hot cup of coffee. Sam never ate, it made him want to throw up. He’d gotten past the point of proving to Dean that he had lived through this day before, so he sat in silence, ignoring Dean’s somewhat curious, mostly worrying glances.  
Sam was numb. Tuesday wouldn’t stop. Dean would die again today, he knew.  
“Come on man, spill. What’s wrong?” he asked, and Sam just closed his eyes and breathed a little impatient breath.  
“Nothing, I’m fine, eat your breakfast,” he said mechanically, already having said this same thing a few times before. Dean just huffed and continued to silently pry with his eyes, wondering what the fuck Sam was keeping from him.  
He choked again today, which was interesting. Sam watched resignedly as Dean clutched at his throat, sputtering and coughing, bits of food distastefully flying out of his open mouth. He wanted to get up and help him, help him live, keep him alive, do anything… But he’d tried. He’d already tried.  
Dean’s eyes were absolutely bulging, he was obviously going to pass out any second. Some people had taken notice. Sam closed his eyes. Somebody screamed. Something crashed to the ground and shattered, like a dropped glass. Dean was choking. Something thudded to the table.  
Sam awoke with a start to Heat of the Moment.  
Two hundred. Sam held Dean all day, ignoring his complaints and struggles ("What the hell, Sammy? This is weird, let up a bit," “Come on, man, I gotta pee!" “We gotta eat sometime, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong so I can fry us up a couple of eggs?") and Dean suffocated before two pm.  
Three hundred. By now Sam had stopped formally keeping count, the days all blending into one big mess of death and Asia. But today would be the first day he’d commit suicide. He stepped in front of a train. He woke up to Heat of the Moment, taunting him. No way to die, no way to really live.  
A year. Two. Ten. All made of Tuesdays, of Sam whispering “I’m sorry, I love you," and holding Dean as tight as he could. There aren’t other days of the week anymore. There are only Tuesdays. Tuesdays where Sam refuses to let Dean leave the motel anymore, where Dean is confused and just as lively as ever every time Sam wakes up.  
Dean would never love Sam the way he’s truly begun to love Dean. Nobody could learn to love somebody in only a day, especially not his own brother. But he kissed him on the lips one day, and Dean knew he was just too troubled and gave in and didn’t scold him or remind him of the fact that brothers don’t do that shit.  
Sam was slipping, Tuesday ruining him. He couldn’t even sleep, the loop wouldn’t let him. He hadn’t eaten in months, probably years, maybe centuries. Who knew anymore what amount of time had passed. Civilizations could have risen and fallen in the time he’d been in Tuesday and it didn’t matter.  
Tuesday stole Dean away countlessly.  
"I love you, Dean, so much. I’m so sorry," he’d said when he still had his voice, when Tuesday hadn’t stolen that away from him too. Now love and hate were synonymous.  
Tuesday was godless. Tuesday was everything and nothing, do days of the week matter? All that mattered was the fact that it was Tuesday. Again. And Tuesday was the day Dean died.  
One day Sam forgets what it was like before Tuesday. He tries to remember, but it slips away from him every time.  
Dean talks to Bobby on the phone every morning. Sam is unresponsive. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on with him, Bobby. He won’t even look at me. You can come out tomorrow? Great, thanks. Talk later, Bobby." But they wouldn’t. Dean would die.  
Heat of the Moment. Without Sam’s intervention, Dean dies the same way every day now. Or at least, it sounds that way. Sam doesn’t look up when he does. But it always makes the same thumping, cracking noise. Sam doesn’t even wince when he hears it anymore.  
Heat of the Moment. Dean on the phone. Dean in the shower. A thump, a crack. “Rise and shine, Sammy!"


End file.
